


It's Noct Your Fault

by SpitfireRose



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Appendicitis, Being Prompto is suffering, Clarus is going to raise hell, Noctis panics, Poor Prompto, Prompto is seriously sick and hides his suffering, Regis is Best Dad, Sickfic, throwing up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 09:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpitfireRose/pseuds/SpitfireRose
Summary: Prompto's not about to let some pesky flu ruin his scheduled training with his best friend, Noctis.Spoiler Alert: It does.





	It's Noct Your Fault

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Prompto's suffering can be found here, by the lovely Kaciart on Tumblr http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/162720647938

Prompto’s been feeling under the weather lately, at least that’s what he’s been trying to convince himself.

Yeah, if that weather was a gods damn hurricane followed by five tsunamis, ten monsoons, and a dozen squalls. He’s really just waiting for the ground to crumble away and mercifully swallow him whole already. Chills of sweat have him drenched beneath the swaddle of blankets as if he’d marathoned the foul conditions instead of having confined himself to bed for the past couple days.

Prompto can’t remember when he’s eaten an actual meal last, and doesn’t feel like throwing it back up like he had yesterday’s breakfast of nibbled toast, or what little water he’s managed to sip down. A half-lidded glance over at the nightstand reminds him that the glass he seeks is on the floor, knocked over by poor coordination of his body’s further betrayal. The groan that slips past cracked lips is hoarse, conveying just how shitty he feels as he slowly, slowly props himself up on his elbows, squeezing his eyes shut until the surge of dizziness passes.

The piercing chirp of his phone going off nearly has him cry. It’s a text from Noct, and he doesn’t need to see the reminder that they’ve got training later today.

“C’mon, Prompto, pull yourself together.” Is so, so much easier said than done, but there’s no way in hell that he’s missing any precious time with his best friend. Prompto can get through this, he has to.

The pain in his stomach is just going to have to kill him some other time.

* * *

He’s wrong.

Gods, is he wrong.

It’s going to kill him  _right now._

Noct had noticed his unusually pale skin, how his facade of cheer had cracks in it. He had been willing to call off the session in favor of Prompto going back home for the rest he clearly needed, or better yet playing hooky and crashing at his place under Ignis’s care. The blond had only put on a slipping smile under the excuse of a cold and playful remark of Noct just wanting to slack off as usual, insistent that he’d be alright–more than alright to kick his best friend’s butt. Noctis merely gave him a smirk at the confidence, but both knew that there was no convincing on either side.

Prompto should have been able to dodge that hit like it was nothing, should have been able to twist away with ease before the hilt of the practice blade connected with his lower right side. Noctis had been holding back, and he’s not sure whether to be insulted or relieved.

Right now, he’s settling for death.

Prompto’s not entirely sure if he screamed or not, air nearly impossible to come by as he’s doubled over, arms shaking over his gut to shield himself from further harm. Maybe it’s to keep from bursting, excruciating pain sure to tear him apart from the inside at any second. Eons away, he can make out the tones of a panicked Prince, hovering uselessly in watery vision like some kind of daydream. Fevered hallucination or not, he gets even more nauseous at the realization that he’s the source of this Noct’s worry. Prompto’s faintly aware of the words that slur out of him, hopefully some semblance of assurance to warped apologies, willing every last frayed nerve in his body to get their shit together in a last ditch effort to at least stand.

He’s fine. He’s  _fine_.  _He’s fine, he’s fine–_

Prompto collapses like a puppet’s strings have been sliced clean off, a definite cry escaping him this time as his legs give out. Noct’s fraying composure scales higher in pitch, arms cradling him upwards off the floor. It’s an awkward position, head somewhat resting on his friend’s shoulder with a blessedly cool hand plastered against his forehead while the other grips his bicep. There’s a lot of things Prompto wants to say, feebly attempting to squirm out of Noct’s firm grip as if to prove his health isn’t completely failing him. He’s sorry for being a pathetic mess like this before Noctis, first of all, tears barely able to be blinked back.

“ _N–Noct–_ ” Prompto gives up lifting his head to meet the frantic midnight sky he knows are staring into him, if not darting around to find someone, anyone, to help.

“Prom? Prom, I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to–I–I shouldn’t have–” The Prince is rambling, the first that Prompto has ever witnessed from the typically aloof individual. It’s so unlike Noctis that it’s more terrifying than whatever the hell’s wrong with him.

“ _Noct_.” He repeats the name, voice steady before crumbling with what little self-control he has left. Black spots dance before his eyes, throat tightening as his gut churns like the wash cycle at that cheap laundromat. “ _Gon’ puke_.”

That’s really all the warning he gets before bile is weakly hacked up, and Prompto’s skin crawls at the sensation of slick sick spewing past his chin and spilling down onto his arm to Noct’s shoes. The clenching pain is unbearable, tears streaming down his cheeks at the relentless pressure, having no shame left in his worst nightmare come true to brokenly sob in the Prince of Insomnia’s arms.

Everything  _hurts_. It spreads beyond the searing origins around his stomach, throbbing pulse deafening in his ears as it takes over most of his dwindled focus. Typically bright crystal blue eyes are clouded over with the distant glaze of tears. Noct’s words are but a muffled shout on numb ears, listlessly making out that his friend is addressing someone. Maybe it’s to him, Prompto’s not really sure, fragmented apologies translated into pitiful moans and groans once past his lips.

An angel of scarlet hair and gold amber eyes enters his sliver of vision, blurred but beautiful nonetheless. The thought crosses his vacant mind of how odd it is for the wingless young maiden to be donned in armor, or to look so concerned as she briefly looks him over. Noct pleads something, and valkyrie is gone in the next blink. Prompto whines, feeling betrayed as to why she hadn’t come to collect him to put an end to his misery.

“Aurarius is going to get help.” Is all Noct says, repeating it over as if to reassure himself that his one and only best friend isn’t going to die in his arms because of him. “She’s fast. She’ll get a doctor in no time, and you’ll be feeling better soon before you know it. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

Prompto definitely doesn’t feel okay, but the sincerity of Noct’s attempts of comfort are soft and warm contrasted to the agonizing aches and chill. If these are his last moments, he’s a pretty lucky guy. Minutes crawl by, maybe even a lifetime, before he picks up on rushed footsteps, one holding a distinctive limp. It takes a herculean effort to open his eyes, immediately regretting it as he makes out the King of Insomnia and his Shield.

His gut hurts for an entirely different reason now, going frigid like Shiva’s sealed his fate with a cruel kiss as he visibly shivers. Prompto thinks he’s trying to say he’s sorry for puking all over his son, but there’s nothing but worried kindness on the King’s solemn features as the man merely shakes his head. Noctis is reluctant to give him up to the Shield, Prompto weakly protesting that he’ll get that shining armor filthy by the dirty mess he is. Clarus Amicitia isn’t fazed in the slightest, scooping him up carefully as though the boy could shatter like he feels he will any second.

It’s funny, Prompto thinks, how surprisingly gentle the behemoth swordsman is. He’s still really sorry, though, as the shift in movement and of being lifted has yet another round of vomit dribble out of his mouth. The father of two doesn’t scold or act disgusted, instead ordering the Glaive from earlier to inform the doctor’s that they’re on the way.

The last he remembers is someone placing an aged hand on his burning forehead, promises echoing in his head that he’ll be alright.

_Rest._

And so he does.

* * *

When consciousness becomes his again, Prompto is certain he’s dead.

Plush comfort surrounds him, blissfully tucked into the cozy warmth. It takes a moment to process why it’s such a big deal, finally feeling the dull throb down at his stomach as his body hazily reports in. Faint voices are hushed nearby, deep in conversation that he can’t make out for the light sound of snoring at his left side. Curiosity gets the better of Prompto as it always does, neck stiff as he turns his head in the direction of the noisy breaths. The lighting is dimmed down wherever he is, but his eyes still burn as he slowly blinks them open. A disheveled mess of raven hair takes up most the slumbering face of Noctis, and he’s tempted to snort at the unsurprising sight. Prompto settles for a soft smile instead, comforted by the presence of his  hero of a best friend more than Noct’ll ever know. The name is more of a whisper of air, about near to confess his feelings when something gently squeezes his right hand.

It’s quiet, Prompto realizes, the voices having halted since having moved. His fingers twitch in the hand that holds his, making the effort to turn his head as eyes narrow in concentration. Everything’s so foggy, like he’d been sleeping for some time, aware now of a weight sitting at the edge of the bed. Prompto’s gaze wanders from the hand up onto its’ owner’s arm, soon squinting up at the face of his King.

A dry groan escapes him, scratching at his throat. A glass of water is pressed against his lips, strong yet sure arms keeping him upright long enough to greedily drink its contents. Clarus nods in approval once emptied, setting him down against the welcoming pillows once more.

Time passes slowly as his senses return, guilt tripping him as to why the two of the most important men of Eos are at his bedside. He’d say their behavior is like that of parents, if he had to guess the foreign feeling that tugs longingly at his heart. Regis’s voice holds a soothing calmness as he informs the blond of all that had occurred–‘operation’ followed by words too large to keep up with in his current state–, before finally asked how he’s feeling at how dazed he looks.

Prompto doesn’t lie like he had to Noctis. He’s too tired to pretend that everything is perfect, even admits to the implication that his adoptive guardians are never really home–but they’re still the best parents he could ask for, really! Even if sometimes they don’t leave him enough money for food during their absence, but that’s alright because he’s picked up a part-time job to help keep the power on and the cupboards stocked. It’s the least he can do for them, grateful to have a roof over his head and aw man, they’re really going to be disappointed in him after hearing about this–

Clarus rises abruptly out of his chair, nearly toppling it over as he storms out of the bedroom. There’s a startled squeak and salute of his name as the door just about flies off its hinges, Prompto catching a glimpse of the redheaded Glaive sneaking a look in. Relief flashes across her features at seeing him awake, then she’s gone yet again as the door is quietly closed as if remembering the occupants inside.

“It would seem you’ve worried quite a few people whom care deeply for you, Prompto. Myself included.” Regis breaks the silence, lips quirked upwards as his gaze lingers at the doorway before landing back on the pair. Noctis still sleeps undisturbed in the slightest, and the smile remains for just a moment longer. “I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer to watch over your recovery, but I trust my son can keep you company in my stead.”

Prompto nods, a strange kind of sadness washing over him as his hand is freed and patted for reassurance. The King rises to his feet, albeit with a quickly concealed grimace of the pain that ails him.

Maybe it’s selfish to wish he didn’t have to go, a childish thought that Prompto tries to banish to no avail.

No one ever stays. He learned that a long time ago.

He frets with what he can grasp of the blanket, biting at his bottom lip in both ashamed of the childish desire and to prevent himself from blurting the embarrassing request out.

It’s the father in Regis that knows better.

“Perhaps I can stay until you fall back asleep? Would you like that?” Bless the Six, he takes his place back on the bed’s edge even before Prompto nods that yes, yes he’d really like that.

To no surprise, he lasts only a couple minutes later, and Regis waits a good dozen more to really be sure before gingerly rising as not to disturb the two.

“Rest well, my sons.”


End file.
